


Las Vegas Job

by laCommunarde



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Gen, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:52:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8611201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laCommunarde/pseuds/laCommunarde
Summary: Nobody smacks Lisa Snart and gets away with it - Mick, Lisa and Len pull a richly deserved job in Las Vegas on Lisa’s soon to be ex.





	

Mick knew how to start a bar fight big enough to get the owner down and then get him drunker than a skunk. He didn’t tell Captain Sara or the others, but he did know how to do that much.

There was a story behind it, as there was with most of his statements. This one was called the Las Vegas job and had always brought a smile to Lisa and Len’s face for years afterwards. He hadn’t tried it, but he had little doubt it could have brought a smile to Len’s face even aboard the Waverider before... and he was cutting off that thought there. 

It had involved a very nice payoff, except the payoff wasn’t only in cash, not this time.

This time, some asshole had broken Lisa’s heart and smacked her around once, but once was one time too many. And even once wouldn’t stand for either her brother or Mick, though Mick was hard pressed which she considered worse. He knew what he considered worse: the knowledge and small grimace in her observation that it wasn’t just trailer trash like their dad who smacked their girls. That rich guys like Cory Benedict with their genteel manners and fondness for figure skating and art museums did it too. 

Mick was going to kill him one day, or make sure he wound up in jail for a long, long time.

Cory Benedict had met Lisa a few years back, when she was still skating professionally, trying her best at Nationals. He had been in the front row and had handed her roses after a particularly successful skate. Something about landing a jump and a combination jump in the same competition that he would never be able to keep track of, but she had landed it, good for her. And following the corruption fiasco that was their father’s involvement with a Russian mobster whose girlfriend was skating in the same competition as Lisa that had made Lisa quit skating altogether, she had found Cory Benedict’s card and had called him up and they had hit it off. It had gone on for several months, even involved her moving out there, much to Len’s bemusement. 

And then she’d come home sporting a black eye and a bloody lip and Len’s face had darkened as she told him over hot chocolate and a wrapped up ice pack how he’d hit her. 

Now they were driving to Vegas to end him. 

The plan was this. Mick was going to get him onto the casino floor, which would allow Len to bump into him, get the keys and then use them and a security uniform to let a Lisa who wanted to check security on the vault into the room with all the money, which they would then rob blind, and then she would go upstairs and put a couple rolls of money into his briefcase, making it look like he was embezzling the cash, which the insurance companies were going to love like sharks love blood in the water, and then they meet again outside. It was going to be glorious.

Mick put on a suit. He hated jobs with suits typically, but this one required it - a gray job with brown dress shoes on Len’s insistence - and Len buttoned his shirt so he could breath; he could never figure out how Len did that. Plus, it was for Lisa. He caught sight of Len wearing a black suit straight out of James Bond, and gave him a weird look, until Len explained that that’s what employees wore in Vegas. 

So he went to the floor. And spotted Len walking around there as well. He did indeed look like just another security person. He didn’t nod at him and Len didn’t nod back, but the briefly met each other’s eyes. Then Mick kept walking.

Rules for getting the owner’s attention here worked same as they did in Central he assumed.

First thing first. Grab a drink. Make yourself look drunker than you are. He picked a nice bourbon on the rocks. Tasted like smooth fire going down. Tip the bartender well.

Next thing. Pick a table and start playing and winning. He picked blackjack. Because it was fun and because winning at it didn’t involve an elaborate game of card counting, which he was no good at, though he’d seen Len pull it off on a poker table beautifully, but Len was Len and probably counted cards and blueprints in his sleep. 

Third thing, tip big and act very drunk and talk loudly. He did, spreading around an $100 chip at one point. Flirting with a cocktail server in sequins and very little else (what did they dress people in out here? she didn’t look comfortable.)

Finally, when someone accused him of cheating, get offended. Extra points if this involved somehow decking them across the face. 

This plan went like clockwork. And as he got offended and punched the person who accused him of cheating in the face, and as two security guards held back by his arms, he demanded to speak with the owner. 

A third security officer, dressed a little nicer than the others and packing heat, came over to him. “What seems to be the problem, sir?”

Here was the tricky part. He had to appear both too plastered to be cheating and rational enough to be listened to. “This gentleman accused me of cheating. I want to prove I’m not. I demand to speak with the owner.”

“And how will seeing the owner help you do that?” the security officer said.

Mick raised his voice. “I want to see the owner and demand to know what kind of joint he’s running where a guy on a business trip can be accused of cheating at cards! I was swinging through town on my way to the airport and figured I’d try my hand at I had a lucky day! Does he accuse everyone who has a good day at his card tables of cheating? I amazed he’s still open.”

The security guard nodded. “Would speaking to a manager suffice? He can see to it that you get all of your chips paid out, Mr...?”

Mick shook his head. “Michaels. And no, it’s the principle of the thing. I am not a cheat. And you know what, I’m going to make sure all my friends in business know you get off on accusing anybody who wins of being a cheat.”

The security guard nodded. “Well, Mr. Michaels, I’m sure...” 

“I want to play him. I’ll buy him a bottle of champagne if he beats me. And he can apologize to me if I beat him.”

The security guard sighed. “Go get Mr. Benedict.”

A few minutes later, a man in a shiny black suit with a red flower in his buttonhole showed up, escorted by two of the security crew, one armed, the other - oh, the other was Len and Len pat his pocket faintly to let him know the key had been obtained. “I am Mr. Benedict. May I help you?”

“A gentleman here just called me a cheat and your security guards seemed to believe it and were trying to escort me out. I want to play you at cards to prove to you I am no cheat,” Mick said, weaving drunker than he was. “You win. I buy you a bottle of champagne. I win you apologize to me.”

Mr. Benedict inclined his head, humoring him. “I can agree to that.” He gestured at the table and Mick sat. Mr Benedict sat next to him and waved the security guards - included Len - off. “Dealer,” he inclined his head at the petrified looking dealer, who began dealing with shaking hands. 

Mick ordered two glasses of bourbon and commented that the least Mr. Benedict could do was to split it with him. Mr. Benedict did. And with that agreement, he was Mick’s. Because Mick ordered a second glass, and then a bottle, and after each of them showed up, he kept saying least Mr. Benedict could do was split it with him. Mick had won many a drinking contest based on how long it took for him to pass out or cease to function when he was wasted. And this time, he didn’t even need to drink enough to get Mr. Benedict to pass out. Just to become sloppy.

Mick won enough money on that game that it could easily set him up for the next five years before Lisa came up to him. By which point, Mr. Benedict well well beyond sloppy. 

“Cory,” Lisa said, and god the Snarts had this way of making their voices ice cold when they wanted. It was terrifying even when it wasn’t aimed at you. 

Mr. Benedict leaned back and turned to her. “Lisa, darling.”

Lisa tossed something at him. He tried to catch it but fumbled and it rolled under the table. “We’re done.”

“What do you mean done?” Mr. Benedict shook his head, confused by her statement. 

“I won’t stay with somebody who smacks me,” she said in loud enough that the people at the next table could hear, including someone Mick was pretty sure was a journalist by trade, just judging by her conversation over the last hour or so, and started to stride off.

“Wait, darling!” Mr. Benedict went to get up and grab her. She shrugged him away. He fell against the table, upsetting his drink, and grabbed her arm. 

She hated that. Mick knew what was coming. 

“Get off me,” she hissed, the flat of her palm striking his face. 

The journalist flashed a photograph of that, and of Lisa stalking out of the room. Mr. Benedict looked at Mick, said, “If you’ll excuse me.” And went to chase her down. Mick could have told him it was a bad idea, but he didn’t. Instead he gathered his chips and went to go pay out, tipping everyone on the way out so he had less than the amount they would need to card him with, and hearing Lisa yelling at Mr. Benedict loud enough that the journalist was taking avid notes and pictures sure to fill the gossip columns tomorrow. There was a gasp and he saw Lisa heading out the door as he ducked into get his payout.

Then he headed out, stopping and opening the door of a rental car (he had jacked a pretty red sports car) in front of the casino. “Need a ride?” he asked Lisa, who was standing outside as the journalist who had followed her took her photo, posed there in way like she was used to it (which after that long in competitive figure skating, she probably was).

She turned to him and pretended she didn’t know him, giving him the once over with her eyes and raising an eyebrow. “Where you going?” she asked.

“Airport. You?” he answered.

“Sure. Why not?”

“Get in,” he said, and she slid into the car next to him and closed the door behind her. “So where’s Len?” he asked once the door was closed and the car had started moving.

“He’ll meet us around the taxi stop up the street,” she answered him and looked down at the floor behind him. “How much you get?”

“Don’t know. Want to count?” he said. 

She smiled at him. “Thank you, Mick. Thank you, both.” On hearing her tone, Mick turned to her. They were rare, those moments she showed emotion, and they tended to happen when only one of them was around, and Mick had found, more often than not in a moving vehicle. He wondered about that, but didn’t ask, figuring they’d tell him if it ever came up.

“Not a problem, Lisa. No one hurts you and gets away with it.” She didn’t say anything in response, but a happy little smile flittered up to her lips.

They picked up Len at the taxi stop, and drove the car around to the parking lot where they had parked the truck they had come in on. Mick drove the pretty little sports car into a spot. They threw the bag with Mick’s earnings into their truck. Len opened the back of a truck he had hotted from the casino, and Mick, Lisa and him unloaded the money he and Lisa had grabbed from that truck into their truck. They took a last look into their truck at the amount of money in there.

Lisa said, “You did always know how to make a girl’s heart feel better.”

They closed the door, left the sports car and the casino’s truck there, and got back onto the highway headed for Central City. Home.


End file.
